


Get The Message?

by ChloeWeird



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Anal Sex, Begging, Butt Plugs, Dirty Talk, Dom John, Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Irene Adler, Possessive Behavior, Post-A Scandal in Belgravia, Sexting, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:58:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWeird/pseuds/ChloeWeird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene gets an interesting text message.</p><p>John has set out to prove to Irene just who's going to make Sherlock beg for mercy...twice.</p><p>Set after the events of aSiB, and John somehow knows Irene is still alive, and has her phone number.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get The Message?

The first text came as she exited the sumptuous Jacuzzi of her hotel suite, wrapping herself in a plush bathrobe.

Irene swiped the phone off the low coffee table and keyed in the password with an ease that came from countless repetitions, toweling her hair with the other, manicured hand. _1 picture msg_ read the screen, so she opened the file with a flick of her thumb.

Well, hello there.

A pale, naked back filled the screen, inconsistently lit by the camera flash, and cut off above the neck. She was almost positive that the person was male, but couldn’t tell much more than that.

Before she could zoom in to see much more detail, the phone chimed again, announcing the arrival of another picture. She opened it without hesitation. The angle was different, higher and a little farther away. The background was a little clearer, too, revealing itself to be a hardwood floor, upon which the person in the picture was bracing their hands shoulder width apart.

This picture also showed part of the mystery person’s profile, and thus, it was no longer a mystery.

“Oh, Sherlock, what’s this?” she breathed to the empty room, feeling the warmth from her bath leech away as her worry grew.

Another picture came while her mind raced with questions,—Who had this number? Why would they be texting her pictures of a naked, kneeling Sherlock Holmes?—This time, a frontal view, from above the waist. From the left side, a hand had entered the frame, presumably the photographer, and cupped Sherlock’s sharp jawline, forcing it to tilt up. The photographer’s thumb was pushed just beyond the rim of Sherlock’s lips, and shining wetly where it pulled out of his mouth.

Irene could have sworn her heart stuttered when she realized she knew that hand. She’d seen it clenched in frustration, gesturing in angry accusation, and held above its owner’s head while being held at gunpoint in her sitting room.

Sinking onto the soft bed, she let out the breath she’d almost forgotten she was holding and pressed the phone to her chest. Doctor Watson was no kidnapper, and Sherlock wasn’t being tortured, that she could know for sure. Irene lay back against her pillows, and took a few deep breaths before she took another long look at the picture on the phone’s screen.

Sherlock’s hair was far from the neatly styled coif she’d seen before, and the ruddy flush on his neck and chest contrasted sharply with the image of the pale, untouchable man she’d known so briefly.

And those eyes…

She allowed herself a fanciful moment of longing as she ran her blood red fingernail down the screen, beside those low-lidded, unfocused, heat-filled eyes. What she wouldn’t give to have put that look on Sherlock Holmes’ face.

The buzz of the latest pictures’ arrival jolted her out of her wistful daze, and she’d opened it before she’d even consciously acknowledged the sender(the blocked number that had begun this odd non-conversation).

It was a pity, she couldn’t see Sherlock’s pretty eyes in this one. It wasn’t so terrible, as they were closed in obvious bliss and concentration as he mouthed the stiff-looking fabric of the crotch of John’s jeans. It was a touch hard to tell, but she thought she could see a few darker patches in the cloth, so it was likely Sherlock had been at it for at least a little while, and it made her wonder how “real time” this demonstration was.

The next three texts came in fairly quick succession, and took Irene’s breath away.

The doctor’s flies had been opened, his pants pulled down, and the three photos showed him in various stages of feeding his cock into Sherlock’s wickedly lovely mouth. They were all a bit blurred from either haste or the force of John’s pleasure, but they were clear enough for her to see the stretch of Sherlock’s lips and the impressive amount he’d managed to take in.

There was no one close enough to hear her deeply pleased giggle, but it slipped out anyway. “Well, well, Doctor Watson. I wouldn’t have guessed you were quite so blessed.”

John might have been surprising, but Sherlock was exquisite, with his high cheekbones sharpened by the suction of his mouth, his hair messily clenched in one stout, capable hand, lips glossy and full.

The next text message took a little longer than she’d been getting used to in the short time since this exchange had begun. (Although, could you really call it an exchange if, of the two sides involved, only one was giving, and the other taking? Surely some pedant would challenge that there must be some reciprocation to label this an exchange, but she honestly didn’t care.)

She spent the extra five minutes hoping that those last three pictures weren’t the end to this excellent turn of her evening, and when it did finally arrive, she breathed a sigh of relief.

The new image was of a different location. Sherlock lay on his back on what appeared to be a wooden table. The camera had been moved to a side view and was close enough to the supine man to capture the sheen of sweat on his brow.

It took her a few more seconds than she would have liked to notice that this new picture was actually a video, grainy and low quality, and she nearly dropped the phone when John’s voice blared through the speaker.

“Do you want it out?”

Sherlock’s head lolled blearily toward the sound of the voice, but he made no other response.

“Sherlock.” At the sharp sound, he snapped his eyes open and fixed his unfocused gaze at John. “Do you want me to take it out now?”

The detective responded with a lazy “Mmm hmm,” that rumbled out of his chest like the purr of a big cat.

“Well then, what are the magic words, Sherlock?”

“Thank you, John,” he murmured.

“And?”

Like a boy reciting a lesson, the “magic words” had a sing-song quality about them, but that couldn’t hide the very adult eagerness with which he delivered them. “Will you put your cock in me, John?”

“Well, since you asked so nicely.”

How many months ago was Christmas, she wondered. This had come a little late, but she must have been a very good girl indeed to get the one thing she’d wanted most, but had been denied.

She almost positive that she was about to see Sherlock Holmes get the scolding he sorely needed.

Well, It wasn’t quite the perfect present. She would have preferred to be doing the honours herself, since she could tell Doctor Watson was going to go far too easy on him. Ah, well. She’d take what she could get.

The camera view jerked dizzily for a few moments, then leveled as John settled at the end of the table. Sherlock’s thighs were open, and his feet were tucked up against them, spreading him wide. His penis lay, red and fully hard, against his belly, but John’s hand skated past it, and his swollen bollocks. Instead, he firmly grasped the end of a, heretofore unnoticed, black plug that was lodged inside Sherlock.

John drew out the plastic base at a glacial pace, unrelenting even as shivers ran up Sherlock’s tense thighs. Halfway through his progress, he pushed the toy back in and gave a sharp twist to a dial on the of it, then paused as Sherlock spasmed.

Through the tiny microphone, Irene recognized the dull hum, like a tiny car engine idling, as John pulled the vibrating plug free completely. She wondered briefly how long it had been there, then recalled the flush of arousal on Sherlock’s skin even as he did nothing more than lap at the fabric of john’s trousers.

It’s likely he’d had the thing in the whole time, buzzing away, poor thing, she thought with a rush of mad glee.

Without wasting any time, John filled the space recently vacated by the plastic with two fingers, and adjusted the camera so that he could zoom in on where they plunged into his body. When they were easily accommodated, John added one more to Sherlock’s almost excessively lubed hole.

Irene rolled over onto her stomach, propped her head up an elbow while she held the phone up with the other hand and desperately wished she had some popcorn.

Sherlock let out a low whine, and arched up against John’s hand, which earned him a firm smack on the bottom when John withdrew his fingers.

John held the camera remarkably steady as he lined himself up with Sherlock’s entrance, and wrapped wrapped the detective's legs around his hips. While he pushed in, he spoke to Sherlock in a voice that exhibited his former life as a Captain in Her Majesty's.

“Who do you belong to?”

Sherlock’s answer was breathless, but sure. “You.”

“I can’t hear you, Sherlock. Who owns you?”

“You, John.”

“And this?” John took Sherlock’s turgid prick in his fist just as he increased the speed and force of his hips striking against Sherlock’s. “Who owns this?”

Sherlock’s breath left him in rush, and his body bowed upward into John’s firm strokes. “Hah! You, just you. Nng, harder, John!”

“Oh, you want it harder, do you?” John’s control over his voice was slipping a little. He was a bit short of breath from the exertion, and his voice shook with lust, but the camera phone was almost rock steady. “Well, if you want it harder, you’ll have to beg for it, then.”

For the first time since the video began, a hint of petulant defiance flashed in his pale eyes, only to be swamped by shivering pleasure when John’s hand on his cock gave a particularly clever twist.

“Please,” he whispered, his brow furrowed against the assault of sensation.

“What was that, Sherlock?”

“Please, John!” he groaned, testily.

“Tell me what you want, and ask nicely,” John growled and thrust once, hard enough to scrape the table along the floor, then stopped, almost completely.

“Please, fuck me harder, John!” he all but shouted, then moaned desperately when John’s hips sped up again, pounding into him with a brutal strength.

John’s steady grip on the camera was really quite impressive, Irene thought. The view only shook slightly even as their breathing turned into gasping and Sherlock’s low moaning turned into a full out rumbling cry.

Irene tapped her fingers on her cheek, impatiently, as she awaited the big finish, and licked her lips when Sherlock let out a particularly loud yell. She was positive they were about to wrap it up, when abruptly, John pulled out of Sherlock, and stepped away from the table, still breathing heavily into the microphone of the mobile.

Sherlock writhed and whimpered on the table and bucked his hips, trying in vain to find friction in the air. He tossed his head back, exposing his long, pale throat, and the video cut off.

That was it? Irene pouted, rechecking the file to make sure she hadn’t missed the ending, or been sent a part two. Nothing. She waited a couple of minutes, and still no new texts arrived.

More than a little put out, she rose from the bed and went to the mirror to brush out her slowly drying hair. As she ran the tool through her hair, she contemplated the rather disappointing ending. After Sherlock had begged so prettily, too.

But, she supposed, it was foolish of her to hope that John would actually allow her to see the moment when Sherlock was most vulnerable, even just through a camera phone lens. There was only so far jealousy and possessiveness would go.

When she set down her brush, and turned back to the bed, a chiming sound froze her in her tracks.

Her phone was ringing. The display showed a blocked number.

Of course, she pressed the little green button. She was greeted with only silence on the line.

“I’m listening,” she said, to end the stand-off. Only then did she hear a few clicks, then the background static got a little louder. Speakerphone perhaps?

John’s voice finally came on the line, quieter, and tinnier than it was before, but no less commanding. “Again. Beg for it. Again.”

The memory of her challenging words came back to her in a rush… _until you begged for mercy, twice_.

Sherlock let out a sobbing moan somewhere near the mobile on the other end. “I c—”

“You can. If you want it, you will beg. Again.”

For a while there was only the sound of Sherlock’s deep, ragged breathing. Then, a few stuttered attempts, “P—Puh. Pl—”

There was a noise of movement. A huge gasp, probably from Sherlock.

“God! John, please!”

“Please what?” A sharp smack, and a hoarse moan.

The words tumbled out of Sherlock’s mouth. “Ah! Please fuck me, please god let me come, please.”

John gave a pleased hum. “Good boy.”

Out of the silence on the line, there came an unmistakable rhythmic scraping and the thumping of the table legs against the floor. The noises sped up, then there were few low murmurs, and stuttering yell that made the speakers on her phone crackle from the overload.

Silence. The phone gave two beeps in her ear, and the call cut off.

Irene collapsed on the bed again, staring at the delicate crown molding above her. Well, she thought as her heart returned to normal speed, that certainly showed her. She chuckled, and hoped their long distance calling bill was off the charts.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Author loves comments, so please feel free to tell me what you think of this!


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